


A Hot Date

by AllTheThings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Firefighter!John, Intentional fire setting, John to the Rescue, M/M, but Sherlock gets away with everything, but he secretly likes it when John carries him, he also might have a thing for John's turnout gear, nascent johnlock, which is technically arson, you'd think Sherlock would just text
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 14:53:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3330149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheThings/pseuds/AllTheThings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock needs to learn that John's number is NOT 999.</p><p>In which temperatures rise, Sherlock gasps for breath, and John sweeps him off his feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hot Date

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jinglebell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinglebell/gifts).



> I set out to write a few sentences of firefighter!John, and I don't know what happened. Not beta'd or Brit-picked, just a quick bit of fun.
> 
> Happy Birthday Jinglebell, oh sparkly bestower of excellent fic, who maketh me to lie down and fan myself!

John rolled his eyes when he saw the address that came up on the dispatch: 221B Baker St.  This was the third time this week.  Still, he wasted no time getting into his turnout gear and heading to the truck.  It would be just like Sherlock to actually put himself in danger just to get John to pop around for some tea and feats of strength.

As the engine pulled up on Baker Street, thick black smoke was pouring out of one of the upper windows that John recognized from previous visits as belonging to the sitting room of 221B.  John's heart leaped in his chest to see that this was not some nuisance kitchen fire.  

He hopped down from the truck and gave instructions to his men to start laying hoses and secure the ground floor.  He hastily donned his SCBA, turned on his torch, and plunged into the foyer of the building.  

Fortunately, the doors to the upstairs flat were closed and only a thin haze of smoke obscured his visibility.  He was able to quickly climb to the upper landing and briefly put his gloved hand on the door to test the heat.  It wasn't that hot, and the open windows in the front meant that backdraft probably wouldn't be a problem, so John kicked it in and started scanning the sitting room for any sign of life.  Oh god, he hoped there were signs of life.  The visibility in the room was shit, but the heat coming off of the fully engulfed sofa was hard to miss at this range.

A feeble cough drew his attention to the kitchen, where the smoke was just as thick, but thankfully it was a little cooler.  The light from his torch bounced around the room for a few frantic seconds before landing on Sherlock, collapsed on a kitchen chair, and breathing rapidly between racking coughs.

"There was no...need...to kick...the door open...John.  I left it...unlocked...for you," Sherlock rasped.

John removed his mask and placed it on Sherlock, allowing him a few much needed breaths of clean air.  Without the mask on, John's angry shout of "What the hell were you thinking?" had maximum effectiveness, causing Sherlock to jump in the chair.

Sherlock, his voice now muffled by the mask, responded slowly, "Miscalculated...necessary...fire size.  Sofa...burns...really...bloody fast."

"Ok, fine, you're an idiot.  But we should both stop talking and conserve our lungs.  Let's go.  Can you walk?"

Sherlock looked down at his ankle, pointedly not saying a word.

John crouched down to inspect the ankle, holding his torch underneath his arm for a better view.  The heavy swelling was enough to tell him that it was at least sprained and probably broken.  He re-situated the mask on his own face and tucked his torch into his belt, freeing his hands to hoist Sherlock into a fireman's carry over his shoulders.  Sherlock gave a small grunt of discomfort and damaged pride, but wrapped himself around John's shoulders, maximizing contact between his body and the rough fabric of John's turnout gear.

John quickly left the flat, closing the door behind him to help contain the still-blazing fire.  As he carried Sherlock over to a waiting ambulance, he shouted the details of the fire to his team and ordered them to proceed with caution.  He plopped Sherlock unceremoniously on the gurney, still mindful of his ankle, and hung around while a medic nestled an oxygen mask over his face, a bright orange blanket over his shoulders, and a stethoscope on his chest.  

"Pretty nasty case of smoke inhalation," the paramedic proclaimed when she was done.  "You're lucky the carbon monoxide didn't kill you.  But there shouldn't be any lasting damage.  We'll still need to take you in to treat it and set the ankle."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed over the mask, his body language telegraphing the put-upon sigh that his lungs couldn't manage at the moment.  "Tedious," he croaked through the plastic mask.  His eyes shifted to John.  "Come with me?"

"You know I can't, I have to stay here and put out the fire that you started.   _Literally_.  Maybe next time, if you want to actually talk to me, you shouldn't burn down your flat and get yourself nearly killed."

"So...you're saying...that...'my sofa is on fire'...is a rubbish...chat up line?" Sherlock managed to gasp out, the corners of his eyes crinkling nearly imperceptibly.

"Yeah, bit not good," John answered.  He took Sherlock's mobile from his clutched fist and programmed in his number as 'Firefighter John.' He handed it back to him and said "Most people just text, Sherlock."


End file.
